


Visions Are Seldom All They Seem

by LayALioness



Series: I Hope This Song Will Guide You Home [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want to break the curse,” Bellamy says, incredulous.</p><p>“Whoa, slow down, buddy,” Clarke puts a hand up. “I asked—hypothetically—how to break it. I didn’t say I would.”</p><p>“They’re riddles,” Bellamy says, completely ignoring her warning. “Four riddles. If you can answer them, they break.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions Are Seldom All They Seem

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is all because of kindclaws, who really just told me about the Once Upon A Dream cover by Lana Del Rey. And then this happened.
> 
> For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr, which, why not? I am doing song fics! Send me a song and I'll write a fic for it. Most will be Bellarke, because I have a real and serious problem, but other ships may vary. 
> 
> This is me: http://tierannasaurusrex.tumblr.com/ Come say hi!

Clarke sighs heavily and walks around the front of her car. She looks at it from all angles, and then pops the hood to stare some more. There’s steam coming from the engine—she isn’t sure what part—and one of the tires is losing air pretty quickly. She isn’t really surprised, but she kicks at the bumper anyway. She doesn’t _need_ this today.

Really, she doesn’t need it anytime, but today has been especially bad. She failed a biology test, and had another infuriating call from her mother, _and_ her afterschool art lesson for the junior high was canceled when the school was flooded as some senior prank. (Who even floods a school as a prank? What happened to just taping condom balloons to the locker?)

With another sigh, Clarke tugs out her phone to call Raven, who answers with a short _What?_ that Clarke ignores; Raven always answers the phone like that.

“The Rabbit broke down,” she says with another kick to the bumper. “I’m on I-64. Come get me?” She piles her hair up off her neck, having to pick at the strands glued in sweat. She fans herself with her tank top, but it doesn’t do much other than move the hot air around.

“The things I do for you, Griffin,” Raven grouses. And then, “I need a favor.”

Clarke hesitates. A favor, to Raven, could mean anything from washing her laundry to an impromptu road trip to New York. Clarke doesn’t say yes to her lightly, but.

It’s hot out, a muggy ninety-eight degrees, and she doesn’t have any water in the car. It’s a five mile trek to the nearest gas station, and heat stroke is a very real threat. Plus, she’s had a really shitty day.

“Fine,” she mutters. “What is it?”

“There’s a rave up at Blake Manor,” Raven smirks. “You’re going with me.”

Clarke fights a whine, then decides she doesn’t have much pride to lose at this point anyway, and lets it out. “You know I hate those things,” she growls.

Raven took her to her first and last rave when they were seventeen and newly graduated. She’d taken one look at the sweaty, fluorescent mass of bodies, and the little yellow strips of sugar acid being passed around, and said _no, thanks_. She may not have actually gone to medical school, but she still knows what that kind of shit does to the human body.

“This won’t be like the last one,” Raven argues. “It’s a three-day lock in, like a giant slumber party. But with booze and great music. It’ll be awesome, and you’re coming.”

It’s Memorial Day Weekend, so Clarke isn’t surprised a bunch of teenagers are taking advantage of it by having some sort of orgy in the local abandoned castle. She supposes everyone has plans for the holiday but her—that’s what her mom called about. She wants Clarke to make the drive up to DC, and it’s not even that long for her, just a little over an hour on the back mountain roads. But she and Abby do better from a distance, so she said no.

“Why do you even want to go?” Clarke asks, putting off the inevitable. She always gives in to Raven.

“I repeat, _giant slumber party, with booze and great music_. Plus my boyfriend’s DJ-ing.”

“Finn?” Clarke tries to picture the PETA enthusiast scratching records at a rave, but it’s pretty impossible. Plus, she’s pretty sure DJ’s don’t even use real records anymore, which is kind of a let-down.

“As opposed to my other boyfriend?” Raven deadpans. “Yes, Finn. He’s actually pretty well-known. They call him Spacewalker.” Clarke still can’t see it, but she doesn’t argue.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll go to your stupid slumber party,” she concedes. “Now come get me; I’m getting a sunburn.”

“Good,” Raven chirps. “Your pasty ass could use some color.” She hangs up without saying goodbye.

Clarke tucks her phone back in her pocket and sits in her car with all the doors open for ventilation. It doesn’t really help, and by the time Raven shows up in her truck, Clarke’s clothes are soaked through with sweat. Her jeans have gone dark in wrinkled patches, and her socks feel wet and soggy. It’d pretty gross, and Raven makes a face when Clarke hugs her in desperate thanks before clambering into the air conditioned truck.

“What the fuck did you do to this poor baby, Clarke?” Raven asks, eyeing the Rabbit’s pitiful engine.

“It’s not my fault,” Clarke calls out, holding her shirt open in front of the air vent. “She’s been temperamental all week. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Yet you’re the one behind the wheel,” Raven growls as she tinkers away at the Cruiser.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Semantics,” she says mildly. “When’s this rave of yours?”

“It doesn’t start till eleven,” Raven huffs, sliding under the car until only her legs are visible.

Clarke spends the next twenty minutes playing Fruit Jem on her phone, and listening to Raven rant about her coworker. His name is Kyle, but she refuses to call him by it as some sort of warfare tactic. He’s actually a nice guy, and funny, and kind of cute in a scruffy sort of way, and he fixes their wifi whenever it goes out, because Raven gets impatient and starts kicking the box. Clarke really likes him, and Raven does too, deep down. Clarke’s not sure _why_ they keep pretending they’re not friends; they are very obviously friends. They’re the friendsiest of all time.

Finally, Raven slides back out, covered in motor oil and all the happier for it. “It’ll hold for the drive home, but you should bring it by the garage next week.”

“Sure,” Clarke chirps, hopping out of the truck. She’s still sweating, but not unbearably, and her car’s running again, so her mood is ten times what it was.

Raven follows her back to the apartment, a one-bedroom somewhere near the middle of the city. The shower only drains every other day, and the electric cuts off once a month for some unknown reason, and the doorknob doesn’t actually lock. But it’s also _theirs_ , which makes the two months of no air conditioning almost worth it. Almost.

Clarke spends the next several hours doing her best to get out of the slumber party rave, but Raven proves infuriatingly firm about it. When Clarke tries to lock herself in her room, Raven picks the lock with an old popsicle stick, and wrestles Clarke onto the bed before sitting on her, refusing to get up until she surrenders.

She holds out for a while, but it’s hard to breathe through dirty sheets, and Raven can fart on command.

Every town has their own Blake Manor—a mysterious place that no one really knows that much about, that everyone tries to figure out but never can. Skyland isn’t a very big city, and every kid grows up learning about the old abandoned castle, nestled deep in the woods around the town limits. Clarke first found out about it when she moved here for community college.

She’d known Raven for a few years by then, through the internet. Raven had a popular gaming vlog, where she also occasionally showed her viewers how to hotwire different modeled cars. Clarke was more on the artsy side of the site, doing speed-drawings and commissions. One of her fans sent her a link to Raven’s video involving a hot rod, after Clarke had been lamenting about not being able to find any good reference photos on google.

She ended up drawing Raven _and_ the hot rod, and then someone tweeted the picture at Raven, who messaged Clarke the next day. The rest was history, and they now run a side blog, which is mostly just short clips of them arguing about _Bladerunner_ while folding laundry, or sometimes Raven will let Clarke give neat paintjobs to whatever scrapped lemon she tows home to tinker on. They’re not exactly _famous_ or anything, but they sometimes get recognized in coffee shops, and last year they went to a gaming con and some people asked for their autographs.

Abby somehow found out about the blog a few months ago, which is another thing they’ve been arguing about lately. She’s worried Clarke will later regret being filmed in nothing but an old tank top and paint-stained shorts, or that her future employers will see her cussing out her roommate on vimeo, and fire her on the spot. Or something. To be honest, Clarke doesn’t really follow her mother’s logic, these days. Mostly she just tunes her out.

At ten-forty-five exactly, Clarke is sitting shotgun in Raven’s truck, with a gym bag filled with pajamas and an old fleece blanket, in her lap. She also packed her toothbrush and a bunch of mini shampoo bottles she stole from hotels over the years.

Blake Manor is an hour drive from their apartment, even longer with the congested traffic of businesspeople trying to get out for the holiday weekend, so by the time the girls pull up to the castle, the party is in full swing. There isn’t really a designated parking area, so most of the cars have been fitted haphazardly together anywhere there was room, like a game of particularly annoying Jenga. Raven clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed at the treatment of these cars, and makes a point to park in the shadows, several feet from anything.

Clarke isn’t sure who was in charge of decorating the castle, but they did a good job. From the outside, there are a few faded lights barely shining through some windows, but for the most part, the place looks empty. Once they walk through the door, though, everything changes.

The music is so loud Clarke can feel it thrumming through her bones, and each room is packed with bodies swaying and jumping and spinning around. People have carried portable generators in, and lined dozens of Christmas lights up along the walls, and strobes throughout the ceilings. There aren’t any cobwebs, like she was expecting, or even a lot of dust.

Someone must have passed out cans of silly string, because the stuff is all over the floors and walls, and most of the people. It glows neon green and orange in the dark-lights, and people have used it to paint words on their skin, like _skank,_ and _cock sucker_ , and _69_.

“Yeah, _totally_ different from the last rave,” Clarke deadpans, rolling her eyes. Raven pretends not to hear her, skipping into the fray pretty instantly.

Clarke wanders after her roommate, clutching her duffel protectively, and shouldering the grinding strangers out of her way. They’re high enough, or drunk enough, or both to just brush her off with placid smiles.

Raven’s found Wick and some other people just a few feet from a sort of platform made out of a wooden stocking pallet, where Finn stands at a fold-out table with his laptop hooked up to a pair of enormous speakers. He’s wearing a pair of enormous headphones around his neck, but doesn’t seem to be actually using them. He glances up right as she’s staring, and they lock eyes for a moment. He gives her a grin and a wave, and Clarke smiles back thinly—she doesn’t _not_ like Finn, but he’s a little more tactile than she’s comfortable with, and he tends to bulldoze other people’s opinions when they disagree with his own.

Plus, he and Raven have next to nothing in common. She’s not actually sure what they do together, besides fuck, and hold hands a lot. It seems like sort of a waste, someone as awesome as Raven, spending all her time on someone like Finn.

Clarke wanders over to her friends, eyeing the pile of backpacks and satchels—and a few Hefty garbage bags—thrown together in front of the DJ table. She debates just keeping ahold of her duffel, before tossing it with the others. There isn’t anything valuable inside, and she doesn’t really feel like carrying it around for the next three days.

If she’s lucky, Raven will either get very drunk and pass out, or slink off to have sex with her boyfriend in a closet, and Clarke will be able to sneak out and drive home. She’ll pick Raven up on Monday morning, or maybe just let her catch a ride with Finn.

“Why so glum, sugar plum?” Wick says—shouts, really, to be heard over the music—sidling up beside her. He’s sipping something out of a plastic McDonald’s cup, and Clarke’s almost positive it’s not soda.

“I guess Raven didn’t say I came here under duress?” Clarke grins wryly. It’s hard to be annoyed around someone like Wick—he’s like the physical embodiment of that video where the golden retriever wears a party hat and jumps around with a yoga ball.

“She did mention something about a kidnapping,” he laughs, swinging an arm over her shoulders. “Come on—it may be an involuntary party, but it’s still a party.” He leads her over to a huge metal trash can someone’s filled with steadily melting ice, and a hodge-podge of alcohol. He’s careful to get her a bottle that’s firmly sealed, which she appreciates, and an unopened bottle of water. She sort of has a reputation as a stickler for hydration, but only because no one else bothers to monitor their drinking.

Eventually, though, the extra drink takes its toll. “Where’s the bathroom?” she shouts at Wick. They’re not in the middle of the throng, but they’ve been jumping wildly enough to get a little mixed up. Her hair is sticking to the back of her neck again, but Clarke’s a little tipsy, and she’s actually having fun.

Wick makes a vague gesture towards one of the doors leading further into the castle. Clarke hands him her bottle and elbows her way through the group.

The door is old and wooden, with iron plating along both sides. It looks like a movie prop, and she can’t help giggling a little as she steps through. The hallway is mostly empty, so her voice echoes back to her. There are a few couples making out on the floor, and some stragglers that drank a little too much and had to sit down. Clarke picks her way through them, searching for anything that might house a toilet. Worse comes to worst, she can always go outside, but it’s pitch black by now, and she’s a little wary of poison oak.

Just as she’s about to turn the corner, she nearly collides with another girl. She’s a pretty brunette, and Clarke wonders if she can turn this into a come on.

“Sorry,” she says, giving her most charmingly awkward smile. It works for her.

The girl stares at Clarke sharply. “You can see me?” she demands, and Clarke frowns. She’s probably high on Ritalin or something.

“Of course I can see you,” Clarke sighs. She’s not really interested in the drug scene, and it doesn’t seem like the stranger is interested in girls. Oh, well. “Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“You can _see me_ ,” the girl repeats, grin spreading slowly across her face. Clarke just sighs again, and tries to shoulder past her. She’ll just pee outside, and hope for the best.

But the girl grabs her arm without another word, and begins tugging her in the opposite direction, farther into the building. She’s surprisingly strong, with a grip of iron. Clarke puts her heels down and pulls away, but it’s no use.

“What are you doing?” Clarke asks, although she probably should be screaming for help instead. Even with all the drug-induced haziness, she’s sure someone would hear. “Let go!”

“Stop fighting, I’m just taking you to the bathroom,” the girl snaps, and then softens a little. “I’m Octavia, by the way.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Clarke grits out. She can always kick her in the leg, and then run.

But before she gets a chance to, Octavia stops, and Clarke bumps into her a little. They’re standing in front of another old door, this one narrower and clearly less used. The bottom bits of wood are starting to rot with age. Octavia waves Clarke to it with a smile.

When she goes to follow her inside, Clarke puts a hand up. “I can manage on my own, thanks.” She slips inside and shuts the door before Octavia can argue. There’s a lock, and she turns it, but very quickly surmises there’s no window to sneak out of. There’s an old oil lantern that casts an orange glow over the small room—it’s a pretty standard bathroom, with a toilet, a sink, and an ancient-looking mirror. There’s a rust stained clawfoot tub in the corner that clearly no one uses. Whoever the interior decorator is, they didn’t get very creative with the place.

When she finally opens the door again—having waited more than ten minutes, hoping Octavia would get bored and leave—she finds Octavia is still there, and she’s not alone. There’s a man with her, around their age, with dark skin and a bored expression. He’s wearing a Red Sox beanie, which is a little unorthodox, but it’s a rave.

“Clarke, this is Miller,” Octavia says happily, and then stares at her, waiting for a reaction. Clarke does her best not to roll her eyes, but. Ravers are weird.

“O-kay,” Clarke drawls, looking first at Octavia, and then at her friend. “Nice to meet you,” she says, exasperated, “But I’m here with some friends, and they’re probably looking for me, so…”

But now Miller is staring at her, clearly surprised, while Octavia rocks back on her heels smugly. “Told you,” she goads.

Clarke tries to side step around them without being noticed, but isn’t so lucky. She’s pretty sure she packed mace in her duffel, and now she wishes she hadn’t just tossed it away. “Look, guys; it’s been real, but I _really_ have to—”

“Has he seen her yet?” Miller asks, blatantly ignoring Clarke. Except for the way he keeps stepping in front of her when she tries to move, even though he’s not even looking. It’s unnerving, and a little unfair. She’s tripped over her own feet, before.

“No, I wanted to make sure first,” Octavia chirps. She looks altogether too cheery for Clarke’s comfort.

Clarke was sort of planning to be home by now, to be honest. This is a rave, in an old abandoned and possibly haunted castle—shouldn’t everyone be having some sort of drunken orgy on the dance floor, so she can just leave?

“Look,” she snaps. The pair turns to her, surprised, like they’d forgotten she was there. Clarke huffs a little. “I’m sorry, bu—”

“So are we,” Miller says gravely, and before she can ask what that even means, he snaps his fingers just in front of her nose, and everything freezes.

Or, not everything, just her. Clarke freezes, and Miller grabs her shoulders, while Octavia lifts her ankles, and they carry her down the hall like a table.

Or maybe a dead body. Maybe she’s dead, and that’s what this is. She’s never been religious, but she’s done a little research for her theology class. She’s read _The Da Vinci Code_. She’s been to church.

This isn’t really what she had in mind.

It’s incredibly easy to just relax, now that she thinks she’s probably dead already. She has a few moments to reflect back, and wish she’d done a little more beforehand. She’s a little worried about Raven, when she finds out. How’s she going to afford rent, now? She guesses Finn could move in, but Finn doesn’t see the point in spending hours streaming _Lost_ on Netflix, or Mortal Kombat tournaments.

 _Shit_ —what about Abby? Who’s going to force her to take her sick days, or send her cute kitten videos when she loses a patient in surgery?

Also, there’s that orange cat that’s been living in the ally outside her apartment. She’s been feeding it tins of tuna every day, slowly earning its trust. She’s been calling it Scooter, and she was hoping to finally win it over by the end of the month. It’s going to be expecting tuna, and now who’ll feed it? Clarke already knows Raven won’t; Raven is firmly a dog person, and also just dislikes living things. She has a reputation for killing houseplants, mostly out of spite, and Clarke knows for a fact that the fish she won at the county fair was _not_ dead when her roommate flushed it down the toilet. Raven _hates_ pets. Raven hates most _people_.

Clarke is still lamenting the loss of her almost-pet-cat, when suddenly they stop. She’s still hanging between the two, horizontal, so mostly she just sees a lot of old stone wall and some floor. Everything’s lit by the same old oil lanterns as the bathroom’s, and she feels like an extra in some BBC time period drama.

She hopes she’s not about to see herself sacrificed to some cult God, or something. Or eaten, by a bunch of Burning Man enthusiasts. Death is sort of weird, she’s decided, but hopefully not _that_ weird.

She hears a sound, like someone knocking on a large door. Then she’s shuffled around until she’s standing upright again, and Miller bends down to face her at eye level. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says, snapping a second time, “It’s just easier, that way. Less screaming, and trying to run away.”

A violent shiver runs down Clarke’s spine, and she’s mobile again. She means to scream for help and run away, or at least kick them both in the knees, for good measure. Instead, she says “I can’t believe you _kidnapped_ me.” Then she feels pretty dumb about it, and stomps on his foot.

Behind her, Octavia starts laughing, and Clarke whirls around to kick her too, just to keep things fair, but they’re interrupted.

“I said GO AWAY,” someone shouts from behind the large door. “It was _your_ idea to have the stupid ball—I don’t want to hear about how they’re breaking chandeliers, or stealing the candlesticks!”

Clarke eyes her captors warily, before turning towards the door. Whoever just spoke is clearly in league with her kidnappers, and therefore is not to be trusted.

She really does mean to run away this time, but clearly her sense of curiosity is not on the same page. “Did they say _ball_?” she asks, incredulous. Who calls a rave _a ball_ , seriously? “Are you guys on Xanax?”

“We’ll explain everything in a second,” Octavia promises. Somehow, Clarke doesn’t believe her. Octavia turns to the door and shouts, “This one can see us!”

Clarke rolls her eyes, feeling only a little smug when she sees Miller still massaging his injured foot, wincing a little.

“That’s what you said about the last one!” the mystery voice calls back. “And the one before that, _and_ the one before that. Just leave me alone, O!”

“How many people have you murdered?” Clarke asks, and Octavia makes a face.

“We don’t _kill_ them,” she says, which is not at all reassuring. “She kicked Miller!” she yells back through the door, and there’s a moment of silence.

“She _kicked_ him?” the voice asks, sounding a little amused. Miller shoots a dirty look at the door.

“Is this some sort of game show?” Clarke demands, because to be honest she’s sort of running out of believable explanations. Mostly she’s still stuck on the cult thing, but now she’s searching the shadows for hidden cameras. “Am I on MTV? Mom, if you’re watching this, I promised I’m sober, and practicing safe sex.”

“What are you talking about?” Octavia asks, nose scrunched in confusion. Miller just waves them both down, annoyed.

“It doesn’t matter,” he declares, as the sound of several locks clicking back echoes through the hall. “He’s letting her in!”

Sure enough, the door begins to creak open slowly, inch by inch, until there’s just enough room for Clarke to slip inside. The room itself is dimly lit, and from the opposite side, so she can’t actually see more than the flicker of firelight on the floor.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she says, taking a few steps back. “I know how this story ends—me dead, and possibly eaten, while you guys dance around in my blood.”

“Gross,” Octavia makes a face, gripping one of Clarke’s arms while Miller grabs the other. “He won’t hurt you,” she swears, clearly _trying_ to be comforting. “His bark’s worse than his bite, honest. He’s just very…big. And, uh, _warm-looking_.”

“What does that even _mean_ ,” Clarke snaps, struggling pointlessly as they scoot her closer to the doorway.

“Think, fur. Lots of it. And horns,” Miller adds.

“Oh, God,” Clarke switches tactics, instead hanging limply, so they have to struggle under her dead weight. “I’m about to be fed to a dragon.”

“Order’s up,” Miller chuckles at his own joke, and Clarke stomps on his foot again right before they shove her through the door.

Octavia tugs it shut after them, leaving Clarke standing awkwardly just inside the room, simultaneously trying to look for another exit, while avoiding looking at anything. Or anyone.

She really doesn’t want to get eaten by a dragon.

“What’s your name?” the voice asks, only it’s a lot closer, and not filtered through wood and stone. Clarke still doesn’t look. There’s a blur of shadows on the opposite wall, which she’s pretty sure is a window. It’s a few yards away, but she can probably make it. Maybe. She probably can’t outrun a dragon, but.

“None of your beeswax,” she snaps, inching her way towards the wall. The voice is coming from the fire, which is in the opposite corner, so she can probably avoid both.

“I beg your pardon,” he—because now that the voice is clearer, Clarke can tell it’s definitely a _he_ —says, and she can’t really tell if he’s being sarcastic about it.

“So, is this some weird sort of dating service,” Clarke guesses, still creeping along the stone. There are shredded tapestries hanging all over the place, and a few expensive-looking rugs that are all worn in the middles. “Do you have _all_ your girlfriends kidnapped, or am I special?”

“They’re getting desperate,” he says miserably. She’s pretty sure he’s less excited about her being there than she is. She wonders if he’ll just let her go, if she asks.

“So why don’t you just tell them to stop?” There’s a heavy sigh, that somehow blows through her hair from across the room.

“I _have_ ,” he grouses. “Several times—but my sister likes to meddle, and the others just want the curse to be broken.”

“Ah, there’s a curse involved,” Clarke says sagely, thinking back to all the Hans Christian Anderson stories she read growing up. She’s nearly to the window now, except it’s not a window at all, just some sort of alcove filled with old looking books and miscellaneous trinkets. She might actually cry. It seems like a real possibility.

“Are you familiar with any curses?” he asks, sounding a little amused. He’s probably guessed what her plan was, and sees her annoyance now. As it is, she just shakes her head a little more firm than is absolutely necessary. “Would you like to be?”

As far as lines go, this one’s incredibly unique. The whole scenario is bizarre, really; Clarke’s currently locked in an old castle with what might be a dragon, but at least he seems to be a polite, well-read dragon. So there’s that.

She holds her breath before she turns, because she doesn’t want to gasp outrageously or anything like that. She’s going for cool, calm, and collected. Mostly, she just stares.

He’s not a dragon, and Miller was right; there is _a lot_ of fur. He’s covered in the stuff, head to toe—or at least she thinks he is. He’s wearing a blanket, tied over one arm like a toga. She thinks it’s probably for her sake, because who wears a blanket toga alone in their room?

There are horns too, as promised, though they’re so small she almost doesn’t notice. They look more decorative than anything, in two little points on the top of his head. He’s very large, but not particularly imposing, and he stands straight on two legs like a human. All in all, he’s probably the least threatening monster she’s ever seen.

“What, were you expecting a scream or something?” Clarke deadpans, and he snorts.

“That is the typical reaction. What are you doing?”

“Raven will kill me if I don’t get a picture,” Clarke says, unlocking her phone’s camera. She gets a few snapshots, and then a fifteen second clip for the vlog.

“She won’t be able to see me,” he warns. “Few humans can—most just see blurs through the air, and believe I’m a ghost.”

“ _Are_ you a ghost?” Clarke asks. She’s pretty sure he’s not, but at this point, anything goes.

“Not that I know of,” he says wryly. “I’m Bellamy, by the way. Bellamy Blake.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, purposefully not introducing herself. Bellamy just looks amused. “So, you’re cursed. And Octavia and Miller…?” She figures the quicker she helps the weird castle cult with their problem, the quicker she’s able to go home.

“Also cursed,” Bellamy admits. “Though, differently. They are seen by others, but not as themselves.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“They are seen as inanimate objects,” Bellamy sighs. “I believe Octavia is a feather duster. I forget what Miller appears as—did you really _kick_ him?” He seems delighted about it.

“He kidnapped me,” Clarke defends. “So is this a family-heirloom curse, or a you-were-rude-to-the-wrong-person curse?” She’s thinking it’s probably the latter; Disney has prepared her for this.

“I thought you were not an expert on curses,” Bellamy teases, and then sobers. “The second one.”

“Oh God, did you break up with a witch?”

Bellamy makes a face, which makes him look like a disgusted German Shepherd. “No, but I did romance her sister—I didn’t know she was a witch at the time, of course.”

“And then you broke up with her sister,” Clarke guesses, but Bellamy looks a little sick, so she changes her mind. “You _ran out on_ her sister?”

“I did not wish to marry,” he explains, and Clarke glowers.

“I’m not sure I want to help you, now.”

Bellamy shrugs, apparently not surprised. “I do not blame you. This is what I deserve; Lexa cursed me to look like what I truly am—a monster. In fact, she cursed me four times over, one for each heart I broke.”

“You ran out on _four_ different girls?” Clarke barks, looking for something to throw at him. There’s a wooden chair by the fire; it looks fairly heavy, but she might be mad enough to lift it.

“Of course not,” Bellamy snaps. “The death of a romance is not the only way a heart can break.”

That makes her hesitate, a little. “Okay,” she grants. “And the others? Their curse is tied to yours?”

“Unfortunately,” he grimaces. “Hence the desperation that led to your being kidnapped. I am sorry for that—you can leave, of course.”

Even if he didn’t allow it, she would have just broken the lock on the door, or something. But she’s sure Octavia and Miller are camped right outside, waiting for her to cure them, somehow.

“Are there others? Besides Miller and Octavia.”

Bellamy studies her for a moment, warily. “Yes,” he says finally. “There’s Monty, the gardener, and Lincoln, the groundsman. There’s also Monroe, one of the chambermaids, and Indra, the cook. And Jasper, though I’m still not really sure what it is that he does.”

“And they’re all cursed,” Clarke muses. “Hypothetically speaking, how would I go about, _breaking_ your four curses?”

Bellamy’s staring pretty openly at her, now, huge mouth gaping open and showing his impressive fangs. They’re not all that intimidating—it’s hard to feel threatened when he’s essentially just Big Foot in a toga.

“You want to break the curse,” Bellamy says, incredulous.

“Whoa, slow down, buddy,” Clarke puts a hand up. “I asked— _hypothetically—how_ to break it. I didn’t say I would.”

“They’re riddles,” Bellamy says, completely ignoring her warning. “Four riddles. If you can answer them, they break.”

“Riddles,” Clarke scoffs. Eleven-year-old her had eaten riddles for breakfast. “Good thing I’m the reigning crossword champion of Ark County.”

“What,” Bellamy says, bewildered. Clarke ignores him.

“Okay, let’s start easy. What’s the first one?” She rolls up her sleeves, like she’s getting ready to do manual labor. Bellamy watches, bemused.

“ _I have a red skin, a tall hat, and a heart of stone. What am I?_ ” He recites it, like he’s said it a thousand times. He probably has; Clarke doesn’t know much about curses, in practice, but she’s pretty sure they make people immortal. Bellamy Blake could be three thousand years old, and she wouldn’t know.

“Okay, let’s take it one line at a time,” Clarke decides. She sounds like the ladies from those exercise videos. “ _Red skin_. It’s a riddle, so that’s probably a metaphor, or maybe a reference. Native American? Sunburn? _Tall hat_. Abraham Lincoln, or maybe it’s just referencing a tall building’s roof. A tall, red roof.”

“Yes, that sounds so obvious now that you mention it,” Bellamy says dryly, and she shoots him a glare.

“If you can’t say something helpful, don’t say anything at all,” she shoots primly, and he glowers. “ _Heart of stone_. Hearthstone, the RPG? Probably not. Oh—maybe like the pit of a fruit? A red, pitted fruit. With a long stem. A cherry, it’s a cherry.” She frowns. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Bellamy frowns back. “Could it really be so simple?”

Clarke shrugs. “You knew the witch, you tell me.” He thinks it over for a minute before nodding.

“She _would_ make it ridiculous,” he grouses.

“Okay, so we figured it out. What now?” Clarke’s feeling giddy with adrenaline, which doesn’t even make _sense_ , but she’s stuck in the middle of some weird fairy tale right now, so.

“We find the answer,” he shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Indra will probably have some in the kitchens. Or maybe Monty grows them, in the greenhouse.”

“So we split up,” Clarke decides, marching over to the door. I’ll go to the kitchen, you go to the garden. We meet in the kitchen.” Bellamy gives her a raised brow—or, she thinks he does. It’s hard to tell with all the fur. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, smiling at the floor. “You just—you’re very strong-willed.”

Clarke bristles. “Is that a problem?”

Bellamy looks down on her, gaze warm and serious. “I assure you, it is not.”

Up until this moment, Clarke was always pretty confident in what she likes and does not like. She’s known she was bisexual since she was little, and wanted to marry both Eric and Ariel. Until now, she’d thought that was the extent of her orientation, but now she’s blushing because of a boy-turned-Yeti. It’s only as weird as everything else about this night has been.

“Uh, good,” she stutters, and opens the door to find Octavia and Miller camped outside, as expected.

“Did you do it?” Octavia demands. “Is it fixed?”

“We need to find a cherry,” Clarke answers, waving a hand. “I’ll explain later. Octavia, can you show me where the kitchens are?”

“Miller, with me,” Bellamy growls—the teasing, slightly self-loathing tone from earlier is gone. Now, he sounds authoritative, like a general.

They part ways, and Clarke follows Octavia down some old corridors and a few iron spiral staircases she definitely doesn’t remember climbing up.

They’re nearing the rave—she can feel the bass through the floors—when Raven finds them.

“There y’are!” she shouts. She sounds drunk, which means she’s probably got minor alcohol poisoning, by now. Raven’s tolerance is pretty solid. She slumps against Clarke’s side, liquid sloshing out of her solo cup. “Where you been? I’been looking _everywhere_.” She pouts into Clarke’s shoulder a little. Raven is an exceptionally affectionate drunk, to make up for avoiding hugs while sober. She squints at Octavia. “Why’ve you got a feather duster?”

Octavia bristles, indignant. “I am _not_ a feather duster!” she glares.

“It’s actually a really pretty girl named Octavia,” Clarke explains patiently, dragging Raven along down the hall. “She’s under a curse. I’m helping her fix it.”

“Badass,” Raven slurs. “Y’better be filming this,” she adds.

The kitchen is smaller than Clarke was expecting, and filled with more people than she’d like. Bellamy and Miller are already there, and Clarke studies Raven’s face intently, waiting to see her reaction.

Mostly, she just squints around the room a lot, equal parts drunk and confused. Her gaze lands on Bellamy, who stiffens as she reaches out a hand and brushes his arm. “Cuddly,” she decides, and Clarke bursts into laughter, while the rest of their audience is clearly trying hard not to do the same.

Except Octavia, who cackles like a hyena.

“I most certainly am _not_ ,” Bellamy sniffs, but Raven’s having none of it. She’s leaning against _his_ side now, and looks ready for sleep.

“We can make a cherry jubilee,” a girl chirps. She’s dressed as an old-fashioned maid, straight out of _Downton Abbey_ , and seems happy just to be involved. “Or maybe a cobbler?”

“That won’t be necessary, Monroe,” Bellamy says, and she deflates a little, clearly disappointed. He dips a hand into the can of bright red cherries. Clarke hopes they don’t have to be fresh, or even natural, for it to work. He plucks one out with his claws, and pops it in his mouth without a word.

“Well?” Miller asks, and Bellamy swallows before speaking.

“It’s sweet,” he says, making a face. Then he looks down at himself, and then at the others. Everything seems unchanged to Clarke, but what does she know about curses? She turns to poke Raven in the arm.

“Hey, what do you see there?” She points to Octavia, and Raven frowns.

“It’s the feather duster,” she says. And then, “Oh, sorry. The feather duster _girl_. But she’s still a feather duster.”

“I am _not_ ,” Octavia grumbles, and a man Clarke doesn’t recognize rubs her back consolingly.

“There are still three more,” Clarke offers. “Maybe we have to break them all, first.”

There’s a lot of synchronized nodding, but Clarke can still sense their disappointment. Bellamy picks up the can. “Everyone eat one, just in case,” he orders, and passes it around.

It’s a little hard, because Raven picks that time to wake up, and she _loves_ canned cherries, so she keeps trying to wrestle it away from them. In the end, they all have one, and Raven has about five. Clarke swallows one of her own, and then ties a knot in the stem to show off.

Then everyone else wants to learn how to tie a knot in their stems, so she spends an inadvisable amount of time trying to teach them, until Indra speaks up.

“I hate to interrupt the lessons,” she says dryly, “But we still have three riddles to solve.”

“Sorry,” Clarke tells her, and Raven eyes Clarke warily.

“Why are you apologizing to a teapot?” Clarke drags her out of the room before Indra can hit her.

“What’s the next one?” Clarke asks once they’re in the hall. The others have trailed after her and Bellamy, trying to look over one another’s heads and get a glimpse of her. She tries not to feel self-conscious.

“ _I can be with others or alone, but once you call me, I am gone_.”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” Clarke says, relieved. “Silence. My dad used to tell that one a lot.”

“How do we find silence?” Bellamy demands, clearly frustrated. Clarke puts a hand on his arm without thinking, hoping to calm him down.

“Where’s the quietest place in this joint?” she asks, and he grins ruefully, glancing back at his people, clearly sharing an inside joke.

“The Well of Reticence,” he guesses.

Clarke grins back. “That should work,” she agrees. “Lead the way.”

“I should make sure Wick hasn’t drowned in the punch bowl,” Raven muses, and Clarke very tactfully does not point out that her drunken first instinct is to check on her coworker, not her boyfriend. Raven’s a smart girl; she’ll figure it out.

“Text me when the furniture’s people again,” she adds as an afterthought, heading back into the party.

The well itself is outside the manor, and around the back. Clarke follows them out, surprised to see the sky turning the pale lavender of sunrise.

They all keep quiet, lined around the hole as Bellamy hauls up the bucket. The water inside is a little murky, and it smells like dirt, but they each sip from it anyway. Jasper, who introduced himself cheerily on the walk over, gags a little, but otherwise they’re all unaffected.

“This is ridiculous,” Bellamy says, tossing the bucket away in disdain. He’s as furry as ever; if anything, his claws seem to have gotten sharper, and his horns are at least a few inches higher up on his head.

“It’s _been_ ridiculous,” Miller argues, and Octavia turns to Clarke.

“When was the last time you slept?” she demands.

“Uh,” Clarke tries to remember. Between classes and her job at the school, _and_ the commissions she spends unnecessary amounts of time on for DeviantArt, sleep hasn’t really been her top priority lately. “Yesterday? No, shit—the day before.”

Octavia nods, as though she’d thought as much, and says “We’re taking a break. You can rest in my brother’s room—he never uses the bed.”

“Your brother?” Clarke asks, at the same time that Bellamy whines “ _Octavia_ ,” which pretty much answers her question.

Octavia turns to Bellamy sharply, having a silent argument that she very obviously wins, before Bellamy grinds out “Let’s go, princess,” and tugs Clarke back towards the castle.

“ _Princess_ ,” Clarke splutters. “ _You’re_ the one with the castle!”

Bellamy grins a little at that. “Fair point,” he concedes, opening the door to his room.

She hadn’t even noticed the bed, tucked away in the corner, earlier. It’s large, and expensive looking, but also old and worn down, like everything else in the room. She eyes it a little warily, and when she turns she sees Bellamy watching her, clearly nervous.

She’s made the seven foot tall monster _nervous_. She’s a little smug about it.

“You can have the bed—I mean, obviously,” Bellamy breathes sharply through his nose, looking thoroughly irritated with himself. “I usually curl up by the fire.”

“On the floor?” Clarke asks, eyeing the worn patch in the carpet by the hearth. It’s roughly the size of Bellamy, if he were laying down.

“In the chair,” Bellamy says, amused, and Clarke flushes. He’s looking at her almost _softly_ , and she is absolutely not about to have a crush on the cursed monster of an abandoned castle. She firmly _draws the line_ at bestiality.

“Right, well. Goodnight!” Clarke flops onto the bed, and then grimaces. She’s still in her jeans, with her boots on, and her mouth tastes like stale beer. She mourns the loss of her bag, still downstairs, and probably looted.

“What is it?” Bellamy asks, worried. It’s a little endearing, which she refuses to think about.

“My bag, it has my stuff. For sleeping,” Clarke admits, and he waves a hand.

“I’ll have someone fetch it for you,” he shrugs, and pulls a cord, dangling from the ceiling. All at once, there’s a knock on the door, and then Jasper pokes his head in. He glances at Clarke in the bed, waggles his eyebrows a little, and then turns to Bellamy. “You rang, boss?”

“Clarke’s bag is downstairs in the ballroom. Bring it up here,” Bellamy says, and then turns to her. “Could you describe it for him?”

“It’s, uh, purple. With pink crowns and horses along both sides,” Clarke says, refusing to feel embarrassed. Jasper closes the door behind him, while Bellamy turns to her with a smirk.

“It appears _princess_ was accurate, after all,” he goads, and Clarke throws a pillow at him. It hooks on one of his horns and tears open, covering him in feathers while he splutters, and it’s definitely the funniest thing Clarke has ever seen.

“So, Octavia’s your sister,” Clarke hedges. To be honest, she has a lot of questions, most of them more pressing and invasive than that one, but she thought she should start out small. Baby steps.

“Half-sister,” Bellamy corrects, proud. He’s still shaking off feathers. “She got all the good genetics.”

“How old are you all?” Clarke asks, and Bellamy laughs.

“How old do you think me?” he teases, and Clarke fidgets. She’s pretty sure he’s not from the twenty-first century, at least, but she doesn’t want to offend him by guessing too high.

“Uh, one hundred and two?”

Bellamy grins. “That seems oddly specific.”

“I try,” Clarke says, wry. “So? Was I right?”

“Nearly,” he admits. “Two hundred and eleven. Two hundred and twelve, come March.”

Clarke isn’t really sure how to feel about having a crush on a monster that’s two centuries old. She knows the age thing isn’t really a big deal, comparatively speaking—he has horns and claws, after all, and those seem a bit more pressing.

“And do you guys throw raves a lot, or…” Clarke trails off as Bellamy frowns, confused.

“What on earth is a _rave_?” he asks, with mild distaste. “Do you mean the balls?”

Clarke barely manages to hold herself back from making a few _balls_ jokes that he probably won’t even get. “Balls?” she echoes, trying not to laugh. “With neon soap bubbles?”

Bellamy grimaces. “I leave the decorations up to the others,” he sighs. “And then I spend the whole time in these chambers.”

“Brooding and waiting for a princess in shining armor?” Clarke guesses.

“Usually I read,” he smiles. “But I have brooded once or twice.”

“You’re definitely a brooder,” Clarke agrees. “It’s probably your middle name.”

He looks ready to argue, before thinking better of it. “I must say, you’re taking all of this remarkably well.”

Clarke shrugs, movement made awkward by the fact that she’s burrowed into his bed. “I’m awesome,” she says. “Plus, I’m like seventy-five percent sure my drink was spiked with something, and this is all a weird acid trip.”

Bellamy frowns. “You believe we’re not real?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke admits. Of course she wants this to be real—she’s been waiting for this since she was a kid. But she’s older now, and a good deal more cynical. “Usually I’d just pinch myself, but,” she does, and the skin turns pink, but she doesn’t wake up at home, or collapsed in a sweaty dog pile on the dancefloor downstairs.

“Here,” Bellamy says, crossing over to sit on the bed. The mattress dips comically beneath his weight, and she slides towards him. He holds out his arm. “Try me.”

Clarke only hesitates a little before reaching out to fold her hand through his fur. It’s thick, and softer than she was expecting, less like a wild animal and more like a regularly brushed house pet. She pets him a little, scratching her nails against the skin hidden underneath. To her surprise, and immediate delight, Bellamy begins to _purr_. It’s the actual best.

She pinches him a little, barely enough to feel, but he winces anyway. They’re staring at each other now, and it’s surprisingly easy to just bypass the fur and fangs and get lost in the brown of his human eyes.

She’s still petting him, absently, and he starts to lean into her touch. He looks almost surprised, when he realizes, and even a little embarrassed, but she keeps her hand on his arm.

“When was the last time someone touched you?” she asks, and then turns bright red. That could be easily misunderstood. _Or correctly understood_ , her brain supplies, unhelpfully.

Bellamy fidgets a little, like a cat that wants affection, but doesn’t _want_ to want it. “It’s been a while since anyone’s wanted to,” he admits. “Octavia outgrew early morning hugs last century.”

It takes her an embarrassingly long moment to realize he’s kidding. “Did you just make a _joke_?”

“I can make jokes,” he says petulantly, leaning further against her hand, until now they’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh.

Clarke isn’t sure how long they sit like that, before Jasper bursts in with a flurry. They jump apart quickly, but not fast enough, and Jasper looks thoroughly sorry for interrupting.

He waves Clarke’s bag a little in greeting. “Found it,” he says weakly, tossing it to the floor. “Uh, sorry,” he adds, before slinking back out.

Bellamy glares at the door as it’s shut. “I still have no idea what his actual _purpose_ is,” he grouses, and Clarke shoves him.

“He’s nice,” she argues. “And helpful.” She bends to scoop up her bag, and clutches it to her stomach like a small child, mostly to keep herself from reaching out to pet him some more.

It’s comforting, okay? He’s soft, and warm, and she suspects he’s secretly a cuddler.

“Do you have a bathroom?” She still needs to brush her teeth. Abby instilled a very real fear of cavities in her at an early age, and she’s feeling desperate.

Bellamy waves vaguely to the right. “First door just outside.” Clarke nods awkwardly before slipping out.

This bathroom is a little nicer than the other one, and definitely more lived in. There are piles of crumbling paperbacks all around, and she grins at the thought of Bellamy reading cheap Star Wars books in the bath.

There isn’t a shower curtain, and Clarke doesn’t feel like going to the trouble of running a bath, so she pours soap and water on one of the old towels, and does her best. She brushes her teeth, braids and then unbraids her hair, and then braids it again anyway. She changes into her pajamas—debates for an unnecessary amount of time over keeping her bra—calls her reflection _ridiculous_ a few times for good measure, and then heads back to Bellamy’s room.

He’s sitting in the chair by the fire, with an enormous hardcover book in his lap. He’s wearing a pair of thin, wire glasses, and the blanket toga. He doesn’t glance up when she walks in, and she can tell he’s trying very hard to look busy.

“I’m not going to wake up in a field of mushrooms, only to find a hundred years have passed, am I?” Clarke asks, only a little serious. She crawls into the bed and stuffs her bare legs under the blankets. She’d packed shorts, because it’s summer in Virginia and the nights are insufferable, but now she’s wishing she hadn’t. They’re the same shade of pink as her bag, and they’re _very_ short.

“I certainly wouldn’t rule it out,” Bellamy says seriously, and Clarke tosses another pillow at his head when he laughs.

Clarke wakes up to find Bellamy asleep, curled up on the carpet, the liar. He’s using his toga as a blanket, but it’s slipped down a little so she can see his shoulders and the planes of his back.

Planes, because during the night his fur seems to have receded a few inches. The skin underneath it shows through, brown and freckled. The fur on his head has changed as well, grown curlier and darker, and smoother, like human hair. She wonders if he was a brunette, before the curse.

The book he’d been reading earlier is perched on the chair arm, and Clarke gets up to peek at it. She recognizes the title from her days at the expensive private school her mother paid for; _The Iliad_ , in the original Greek. She flips through it a little, but her Greek is rusty, and she only recognizes a few words.

“Have you read it?” he asks, and Clarke jumps, startled. She turns to see him watching her from the floor, sleepy and amused.

“A few years ago,” she shrugs, sinking down on the chair as he sits up and stretches. His horns still poke through his new curls, and she reaches out to touch them without thinking. He freezes, but then closes his eyes and leans forward, so she lets her hand drift down to card through his hair. The fur on his face is shortest of all, and she can see a million freckles dusting his cheeks.

“Clarke—” he’s interrupted by her phone’s text notification. Raven programmed it to sound like Optimius Prime transforming.

“Sorry,” she grumbles, crossing over to fetch it from the bed. The message is from Raven, because no one else texts her.

_Is ur cuddle monster a cuddle man now and if so how hot?_

_Send dick pics_

Clarke sends back, _working on it,_ and hesitates for a moment before adding, _medium hot. w potential_.

Raven replies immediately. _U better be filming this Griffin. Forget paranormal activity we r gonna be fucking rich._ And then, _Try making out w him._

Clarke flushes, and hopes he assumes it’s the heat. _Why would I make out w him?_

_Clarke its literally always kissing that fixes these things have u never seen Disney? Get ur head out of ur ass._

Clarke frowns, typing a little more firmly than she probably needs to. _i doubt the answer is going to be something as simple as a kiss but ill keep that in mind. it can be plan b._

_Its ALWAYS a kiss Griffin. Plus I bet wick fifty bucks u will mack the dude before hes an actual dude. Be a pal Clarke._

Clarke sends _you have a gambling problem that i refuse to enable_ , before turning her phone on silent and stuffing it back in her bag. She looks up and Bellamy glances away quickly, fighting with the blanket, trying to tie it back into a toga.

She walks over and sinks down beside him, legs criss-crossed. “So you’ve got a hard on for Odysseus, don’t you?” She makes sure to give him a very disappointed look.

“It’s a _classic_ ,” he says, incredulous. “What do you have against Odysseus?”

Clarke shrugs. “He’s a skank.” Bellamy looks ready to kill her. With the book. And then himself, for knowing her in the first place.

“Your parents must be proud,” he says dryly, and Clarke shrugs again. He doesn’t know, she reminds herself. She can’t be angry with him for being a sarcastic asshole—her best friend’s a sarcastic asshole. _She’s_ a sarcastic asshole.

“My _parent_ is convinced I’m throwing my life away, so, no. Not really.”

Bellamy looks like he’s going to vomit. “My mother died just before the curse,” he says softly. “I would not wish that pain on anyone.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Clarke agrees. “My dad got cancer when I was fourteen. I was pretty messed up about it—I barely passed ninth grade, and that was only because my mom was friends with the headmaster. After that, I made sure I went to a school where she couldn’t pull any strings. Which meant community college, basically. She’s still pretty pissed about it.”

“You do not get along?” he asks, not accusatory, just curious. Like he actually wants to know everything about the weird drama with her mother.

“Not really,” Clarke shrugs. “We do better with distance, I guess. We talk on the phone every week, but it’s not—we don’t really talk about anything important, and usually we just end up arguing until one of us hangs up.” Then she winces, because Bellamy’s mother is dead, and he hasn’t even _mentioned_ a father which she’s pretty sure means he doesn’t have one. “I know, I know; she’s the only family I have left, so I should try to fix things.”

“No,” Bellamy says with a small smile, like he knows what she’s thinking. “Parents do not deserve the love of their children, simply because they exist.”

“I do love her,” Clarke says quickly. She does love her mom, she just doesn’t _like_ her all that much, sometimes. “She’s just—it’s complicated. But we love each other.”

“That makes things a good deal easier,” Bellamy shrugs. “Does _she_ know that?”

Clarke frowns. Of course her mom knows she loves her, she’s her mom. But… “I haven’t really said it in a while,” she admits.

“Perhaps you should start there,” he suggests softly, finally knotting the toga in place. Clarke reaches to pull on the hem.

“You’re a bit of a fan boy,” she teases, and he turns bright red.

His face is nearly all skin, now. The horns are still peeking out through his unruly hair, but his cheekbones are sharp and visible. So are the freckles.

She suddenly has a very sharp _need_ to see him as he is, really. “What’s the next riddle?”

Bellamy gives her a raised brow. “What if you can’t solve them all?” he wonders, clearly trying to seem nonchalant. Clarke swallows her grin and tugs at the blanket again.

“Then I’ll google it,” she shrugs, and he frowns.

“You’ll do _what_?”

Clarke spends the next half hour showing Bellamy the wonders of the internet. His favorites are, predictably, the roman-empire.net, which has an interactive map he refuses to look away from, and Christian the lion.

“He _remembered_ them, Clarke,” he says fiercely, hitting replay _again_.

“O-kay,” Clarke coos, gently taking her phone back. It’s on four percent battery, but in a moment of clarity she’d packed her charger. “But we should probably get back to, you know, the whole curse thing.”

Bellamy sighs dramatically, but stands and reaches down to scoop her up effortlessly with one hand. “ _This room grows on its own and no one may leave or enter._ ” He looks to her expectantly, and Clarke tries to concentrate on the words instead of his mouth.

“ _This room grows_ ,” she repeats, frowning. “Doesn’t that sound weird to you? Rooms don’t _grow_. They’re built.”

“Alright, so what grows? People, livestock, plants.” Bellamy counts each one on his fingers.

“People can be entered,” Clarke muses, and Bellamy chokes on absolutely nothing. She does her best not to gloat. “Livestock too. That leaves plants.”

“I’ll send for Monty,” Bellamy stutters, reaching for the cord. Clarke grabs his arm with a jolt.

“PLANTS,” she shouts, and then winces. Bellamy stares at her, wide-eyed. “Plants with _room_ in the name,” she hints, and sees immediately that he gets it.

“A mushroom,” he shakes his head. “I cannot _believe_ we didn’t get that one.”

Clarke texts Raven on the way to the kitchen. _just solved third riddle. meet at kitchen?_

_Is that even a question? Duh. I’m bringing Finn._

Clarke grimaces a little, but then feels bad about it and sends, _ok_ , before stuffing her phone in her pocket. She doesn’t _not_ like Finn, but he’s about as interesting as a postage stamp.

Everyone is there when she and Bellamy arrive—including Raven, squinty-eyed and sort of hungover, with a cheerful looking Wick by her side. She shrugs at Clarke’s look. “I couldn’t find _my_ idiot,” she explains. “So I brought this one. Plus he didn’t believe me about your cuddle monster boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Clarke says automatically, at the same time Bellamy says “I am _not_ _cuddly_.”

Clarke frowns, and looks up at him. “You’re not a monster, either,” she snaps, and then corrects herself. “At least, not really. And not for long.” He’s looking at her softly again, warm even, so she turns away before she does something stupid, like kiss him, or ask him out on a date.

She should probably wait until he’s human to kiss him. That seems like a good standard to have.

She doesn’t bother thinking she should just _not_ kiss him—at this point, not kissing him isn’t really an option. It’s inevitable, she knows. She’s seen _a lot_ of Disney.

“Monty,” Bellamy says, once it’s clear Clarke isn’t about to explain to the rest of them. “We need mushrooms.”

Monty and Monroe brighten simultaneously. “I could sauté them in some oil, with onions and peppers, and—” Bellamy puts a hand on Monroe’s arm to stop her.

“Actually, we should probably just eat them raw,” he says, clearly trying his best at being kind about it, but still a little awkward. Monroe slumps under his hand.

“Yeah, okay,” she sighs, dejected. They all file outside, Monty in the lead. The sky is the deep orange of sunset. Soon it’ll be Clarke’s second day at the manor.

The mushrooms grow in a little clump on a small hill, near the edge of the forest. They’re piled one on top of the other, forming little mushroom mountains, and everyone stoops down to scoop up a handful. They taste like dirt, and they’re soggy from dew, but Clarke swallows a few down anyway. Just in case.

“Holy shit,” Wick says, staring at the group with newfound surprise. Raven gloats a little beside him.

“Told you,” she says, and he messes up her hair.

“Wait, can you see them?” Clarke asks, and everyone straightens their shoulders a little, eager.

“Sort of,” Raven says, still squinting. She reaches out towards Octavia, but her hand falls short. “They’re like…”

“Ghosts,” Wick finishes. “This place _is_ haunted!” His face turns serious. “I knew it.”

“We’re not _ghosts_ ,” Octavia huffs, and Indra puts an arm around her.

“Humans are dull, weak-sighted creatures,” she says comfortingly, and Clarke tries very hard to not be offended.

“Not all of them,” Bellamy says, and when she looks up, he’s staring down at her. He clears his throat, completely unsubtle. “Alright, back inside. We’ve still got two curses to break.”

“What’s the next one?” Clarke wonders, carefully ignoring his hand on her lower back, guiding her back to the castle. It’s warm, and softer than she expected. She can just barely feel the sharp tips of his claws, scratching her spine through the cotton.

But, again, she’s ignoring that.

 “ _A silver horse with a flaxen tail, that grows shorter the longer it runs_ ,” he recites, and this time _all_ of them turn to her, expectant.

“Wow,” Raven says, amused. “You’re like their messiah.”

“I’m a riddle expert,” Clarke shoots. “I kept trying to tell you.”

“Well clearly you’ve found your true calling,” Wick decides. He’s got an arm around Raven’s shoulders, walking along easily, and she’s not hitting him for it, so he’s probably screaming on the inside.

“I should major in curse breaking,” Clarke agrees.

By now they’re stepping into the main hall, where a few ravers have passed out along the walls, using their bags or each other as pillows. One of them is Finn, with his head pillowed on a pretty girl’s bare stomach. She’s wearing a bathing suit made out of glow sticks, but a few seem to have burst open, leaking neon pink and green and yellow across her skin. Raven scowls down at the pair, and kicks her boyfriend in the shin.

He groans, groggily, and opens an eye. Once he sees Raven, he grins a little sloppy, clearly still drunk. Possibly high. Probably both. “Rae,” he coos, and she kicks him again so he winces.

“Aren’t you the DJ?” Wick asks, a little pointed. “Shouldn’t you be doing DJ things?”

Finn frowns up at him, confused, and then at the arm Wick still has slung across Raven. “Why’re you touching?”

Raven rolls her eyes skyward. “This is stupid,” she declares, storming off. Wick trails after her.

“We should get back to work,” Clarke sighs and follows the others back to the kitchen.

“It’s _impossible_!” Jasper cries two hours later. They’ve migrated to the dining table in what was once an enormous dining hall. Clarke can see how it might once have been beautiful, but now it’s just a skeleton of cobblestone and brick.

They’ve been picking at the riddle, and Monroe’s hors d’oeuvres, for ages now, and little to show for it besides a few empty plates. Monty puts a hand on Jasper’s back, consolingly.

“We’ll get there, Jas,” he says, but even the gardener sounds tired. “Just keep it together.”

“No, he’s right,” Octavia declares. “It’s hopeless, we’re hopeless, and I’m going to look like a feather duster for the rest of my life.”

“You’re a very beautiful feather duster,” Lincoln says, and she gives a thin smile.

“I’m the _best_ feather duster,” she agrees, and then sighs. “But I don’t want to _be_ a feather duster! I want to be _me_.”

At that, Bellamy gets up and leaves. Everyone stares after him for a moment, not sure how to proceed, until Clarke stands too. “I got it,” she tells them, and follows after him.

He’s on the floor by the fire again when she gets to the room. She sits down beside him, reaching to run her nails against his scalp. He leans into her hand and starts purring again, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” she offers. She’s gone over the riddle a dozen times, taken it word by word like the others, but she still couldn’t figure it out.

Bellamy’s voice is muffled by the carpet. “Whatever for?”

“I can’t solve the riddle,” she says, and takes her hand away when he starts to turn, so he doesn’t roll on top of it.

“You are exceptional,” he tells her, low and serious. He finds her hand where it’s fallen, and curls it in his own. His claws scratch at her palm, like her nails on his head. He’s trying to _comfort_ her, and he’s bad at it, which somehow makes it better.

“So are you,” she says. _I can’t kiss him,_ she reminds herself fiercely. _Raven will never let me live it down!_

Bellamy hums, but doesn’t argue with her, which is a good sign. He seems a lot less broody today. “You could go back to the ball, you know,” he muses, staring up at her. He’s still laying on the floor, which can’t be comfortable, and Clarke moves so his head is pillowed on her legs.

“I didn’t actually want to come in the first place,” she admits with a laugh. “I was trying to sneak out, when your sister caught me.”

Bellamy grins into the skin of her thigh. She can feel the points of his fangs, and holds her breath. “Why _did_ you come?”

“Raven,” Clarke frowns, and he laughs. “She’s impossible.”

“Still, you don’t have to stay in here, with me and all my old books.” He’s not watching her anymore, having turned his attention to pawing at the ends of her hair like a cat.

“I like old books,” Clarke offers. “I like you.”

Bellamy rolls over so she can see his grin. “I like you too.” He stands up, and she almost wants to whine about it, but he just grabs two books from the shelf and then settles back in her lap. He hands her _The House of Seven Gables_ , which seems a little fitting. Clarke fishes out her phone to find a message from Raven.

_I broke up with the boy bc he is idiotic and I am too good for him._

_did wick tell you that?_

_Maybe. But I’m also better than Wick. I’m awesome._

_true. bellamy said he likes me,_ Clarke debates how many exclamation marks it would take before she came off as pathetic, and ultimately decides even one would be too much. So he likes her, big deal. She’s likable. She’s calm, cool, and collected. She’s not hoping he’ll fall madly in love and ask her to live with him in his huge enchanted castle or anything.

_Cute. Has he asked u to the middle school dance yet?_

_yes and youre not invited._

Raven sends her a string of emoji’s that have nothing to do with the conversation—an alien head, and a cowboy boot? Is that supposed to be a code? Clarke doesn’t respond at all.

She’s read a few hundred pages of the book, which is essentially the most Nathaniel Hawthorne she can stomach at any one time, when she decides to stretch her legs. They’ve gone completely numb beneath Bellamy’s warm weight, and while she sort of wants to stay in that position at least another hour, her muscles are cramping all at once in some sort of protest.

“Don’t get lost,” he teases, and she makes a face.

She gets lost within ten minutes.

Clarke’s near the first bathroom—or at least, what she _thinks_ is the first bathroom, it’s hard to tell—when Finn finds her.

“Clarke,” he chirps, pleased, and not at all looking like the dejected ex-boyfriend she was expecting.

“Uh, hi,” she says, awkward. She and Finn were never really friends, and only ever hung out due to proximity to Raven. She’s not sure she’s ever been alone with him, and never for any length of time.

“It’s good to see you,” he says warmly, like he hadn’t just seen her a few hours earlier.

“Thanks? Look, do you know where the kit—”

“Do you want to get a drink sometime?” Finn blurts, looking a little pink. Like he’s embarrassed, which is absurd.

“What?” Clarke blinks a few times, for no reason. But a lot has happened to her in the last forty-eight hours, and this moment is still somehow the most surreal.

“Sorry, I—I know you’re friends with Raven, but I’ve liked you for a while, now, and—”

“ _What_?” Clarke snaps, and he winces. Which was sort of the point. “She’s my _best friend_ , Finn.” He’s staring at her, clearly uncomfortable, and a little guilty.

“I know, but I really think we should give this a chance.”

“Give _what_ a chance? I barely even know you!” Clarke is suppressing the very real urge to kick him in the shin. Preferably where Raven did, earlier, so it’ll leave a bruise.

“What we have is good, Clarke,” Finn presses, and she hold up a hand to shut him up.

“I think I should go,” she decides. “Don’t come back to the apartment, or I’ll let Raven kill you with her murder-bot.” She backtracks until she finds a staircase that she recognizes, and makes her way back to Bellamy’s room.

He’s in the arm chair, reading what looks like _another_ huge, stuffy book. He’s got his glasses back on, and looks up at her over the rims. “Are you alright?” He seems a little concerned, so she’s probably still a little flushed from anger, and taking those last few stairs three at a time.

“Finn,” Clarke huffs. “Raven’s ex. He just—he’s an idiot.”

Bellamy frowns. “I can have him thrown in the dungeon,” he offers, and she grins.

“That won’t be necessary.” She crosses over to him, and sits down to lean back against his knees. She tips her head back so she’s looking at the open book cover, upside down. “What are you reading?”

“ _Till We Have Faces_ ,” he says, “C. S. Lewis. You can borrow it if you’d like. It’s a little more engaging than Hawthorne,” he adds, smiling.

“I thought you didn’t want me here,” Clarke teases. “With you and your old books.”

“I want you here,” Bellamy says, so soft she almost doesn’t hear it, all traces of humor gone. He trails a hand down from where it rested on her hair, through her curls and down the back of her neck so she shivers. “You can stay as long as you’d like,” he offers.

“I can’t,” Clarke blurts, voice strangled. “I have an apartment, and Raven will _kill_ me if I don’t help pay rent, and there’s school and my job, and my mom, and I have this cat, sort of. It needs me.”

“I understand,” Bellamy promises, and he looks so resigned she wants to cry.

“You could come with me?” she tries, hopeful, and he brushes a few curls behind her ear. He keeps touching her, soft and easy, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

Bellamy smiles brilliantly, but then it fades. “Part of the curse is I cannot leave the premises,” he explains. “But if I could…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. If he could leave, he would follow her.

Clarke lets her head fall against his knee with a sigh. “Curses are stupid,” she mutters. “What ever happened to good old fashioned dueling?” It’s not at all comforting, or helpful, but it gets him to laugh, so she counts it a victory.

He’s carding his hand through her hair, now, and purring so low she can feel it vibrating down his leg.

Clarke doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until she wakes up, tucked into his bed. Bellamy is still in the chair, but he’s traded the book for what looks like an old suit, which he’s sewing with gold thread that shines in the firelight.

“Sleep well?” he asks, pleasant, and Clarke sits up with a gasp. He frowns over at her, needle paused in midair. “What is it?”

“A silver horse,” Clarke cries, scrambling out of the bed. Her legs tangle in the blankets, and she shoves them off with a huff, scurrying over to him. She wrenches the needle from his hand, and puts a hand to his mouth when he goes to argue. “A _silver horse, with a flaxen tail_ ,” she explains, giddy.

Bellamy’s eyes go wide with understanding, but her hand is still covering his mouth. She goes to take it away, but he reaches up to grab her wrist, holding it in place. Holding her gaze, she feels his lips press against the skin of her palm. It’s warm, and a little bit wet, and she very nearly whimpers.

This is probably a sign she needs to get laid.

She should probably not be thinking that, while he’s staring at her.

Clarke clears her throat, and he releases her hand. It drops like lead to her side, needle clenched in her fingers. “So,” she croaks out, “Question is, what do we do with the needle, now?”

Bellamy frowns, reaching out for it, and holding it up to the light. “Technically, we’ve already found it,” he shrugs. “The others should probably at least touch it, just to be safe.”

“Should you prick a finger or something?” Clarke asks. “So it, I don’t know, stays with you, or something? I mean, you can’t _eat_ a needle.”

“No, I suppose not,” Bellamy says, seeming genuinely disappointed. Without a word, he pushes the needle’s point against the pad of his finger. His claws look shaven down into squared tips, nearly human. At this point, the fur is nearly all gone. He still has the horns, though, and when he speaks, she can see the tips of his teeth are all pointed.

Blood wells up around the injury, and he sticks it in his mouth for a moment before wiping off the needle. “Would you,” he gestures it towards her, awkward, and it takes her a moment to understand.

“I guess so,” Clarke shrugs, taking the needle. “I’ve done everything else, after all.” She pricks her finger as lightly as she can, but it still bleeds.

It’s halfway to her mouth, when Bellamy snatches her arm and brings her hand to his lips. Clarke barely has time to say _oh_ , before he takes her finger in his mouth, laving his tongue over the wound.

He’s not looking at her, and his neck is red. Clarke’s pretty sure her face is blotchy now, but she doesn’t try to stop him.

 _Raven can never know_ , she decides as he releases her finger with a pop so wet it’s obscene.

His eyes are blown wide and dark when they finally turn on her, and she’s frozen in place, so close their knees touch.

He licks his lips, and she follows the movement of his tongue. “We should probably get it to the others,” she suggests, embarrassingly breathless.

“Yes, of course,” he agrees, and he sounds just as wrecked.

She backs away when he stands, and he puts a hand on her hip briefly, to steady her. He pulls the cord, and hands Jasper the needle when he comes to the door. “Have everyone prick their finger,” he orders, glancing back at Clarke just once. “Clarke and I will stay here and…finish solving the last riddle.”

“Right,” Jasper smirks, taking the needle and giving a lazy salute. “You kids have fun.” Bellamy slams the door in his face and locks it.

“Where were we?” he starts, crossing back to her. Clarke takes a step back, just to be safe.

“We were about to solve the last riddle,” she offers, and he nods, reluctant, sinking into his chair.

“ _I am bought and sold and given, though never held. I am useless to one, but two I can weld._ ” He makes a face. “She saved the worst for last, it seems.”

Clarke takes his hand and squeezes, because she apparently has no self-control. “We can do this,” she says, firm, and he grins down at her.

“Riddle expert,” he says fondly, and squeezes her back.

“ _Bought, sold and given, though never held_ ,” Clarke repeats, going over any possible loopholes or metaphors. “Ideas? But those aren’t useless to one.”

“Marriage,” Bellamy guesses, and Clarke flushes because her body is a traitor. “Or sex.” Now they’re both bright red. This is hopeless.

“Love,” Clarke decides. “But I guess that can’t be sold, not really, anyway. This is Disney, after all.”

“What’s Disney?” Bellamy asks, nose scrunched up, and Clarke waves a hand.

“You, this place, _everything_. This whole situation is Disney to a fucking T.” Bellamy’s staring at her with a brow raised, so she drops it. “Anyway— _useless to one, but two I can weld_. What’s that about?”

“Sex,” Bellamy decides, and Clarke scoffs.

“Disney doesn’t do sex,” she declares, eyeing him darkly. “And I am definitely not having sex after two nights together.”

“Three,” Bellamy corrects, grinning. “How many nights together would you like?”

Clarke licks her lips, suddenly dry, and his eyes zero in on her mouth. “At least five,” she decides. “ _Maybe_ ten, if the first five are really good.”

“Just ten?” he hums back, curling an arm around her. His teeth glint sharp as he smiles.

“Why? H-how many would you like?” Clarke stutters as he pulls her into his lap. “This is a very strong chair,” she observes, and he laughs against her shoulder.

“Fifty,” he decides. “And then we’ll go from there.”

“Fuck, fifty nights together? I’ll get bored with you.” He’s leaning into her when she figures it out, and pulls back with a grin.

“What?” he frowns, sitting back. He was definitely about to kiss her, and now he’s annoyed that they’re not. “What’s wrong?”

“I solved the last riddle,” she says, and then laughs, because Raven really will _never_ let her live this down. The gloating will be horrible.

“What is it?” Bellamy asks, breathless, and she kisses him.

Clarke’s pretty sure he gets the message, because he kisses her back instantly. He kisses her and kisses her and when she pulls back to breathe, he just dips down to mouth at her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She doesn’t really mean to grind up against him, but she does, and he groans so deep the sound makes her shiver. His hand flirts with the band of her shorts and she nods wildly before he dips in so she can rut against the heel of his hand.

“Clarke,” he chokes out when she bites at his jaw. “It’s been— _mother of God_ —it’s been a while,” he admits.

“We’ll go slow,” she gasps, and he laughs, nipping at her ear.

“ _This_ is slow?” he teases, stroking between her thighs to make his point. She whines a little, and moves her thigh between his in revenge. He gasps and she grins wickedly.

“We still have clothes on,” she points out. “This is _glacial_.”

She grinds against him just three more times before he’s digging his fingers into her hips and shuddering, leaning his head down between her breasts. She takes his hand and brings it back between her legs, moving it how she likes, firm and fast and messy, while he licks hot stripes up her neck.

“Fuck fifty,” he breathes. “I want one hundred nights.” He pulls back to watch her as she comes apart at his fingertips, and then kisses her again for good measure. She hums into his mouth.

“One hundred,” she agrees.

They’re flying down towards the kitchen, when they run into Raven and Wick making out in the stairwell.

Raven takes one look at Clarke’s tangled hair, and Bellamy’s swollen mouth and general humanity, and smirks. “I told you so,” she sing-songs, and Clarke hits her.

Bellamy has Jasper herd everyone into the dining hall, and then there’s a lot of kissing for the next fifteen minutes. Indra smacks a kiss to Monroe’s mouth, Monty pecks Miller with a shy smile, Jasper gets passed around like a beach ball—even landing one on Bellamy, at one point—and Lincoln kisses Octavia much more chastely than he probably would have were Bellamy not in the room.

Then Octavia has them all line up so Clarke can kiss them, just in case it makes a difference, which Bellamy gets ready to fight them on, until Clarke just rolls her eyes. “I’m about to kiss your sister, Blake, get over it.”

He huffs a little, but when Wick gasps out “You _are_ people,” Bellamy grabs Octavia and swings her around with a whoop.

“It’s _always_ a kiss,” Raven says, like the smug asshole she is.

Bellamy slots himself against Clarke’s side, eyeing Raven narrowly, sizing up his competition. Clarke reaches up to run her hands through his curls, where his horns used to be. “I kind of miss them,” she admits.

Bellamy just grins and leans down to rub his cheek against hers, like a cat. “I am sort of cold now,” he admits, and she laughs. He pulls back to look at her. “Would you like to have dinner with me, some time?”

Clarke puts a finger to her chin, pretending to think about it. “How about right now? Or,” she checks the time on her phone. “An early breakfast? And then dinner, tonight.” Bellamy grins, opening his mouth to respond, but Raven beats him to it.

“Great, there’s an all-night Denny’s up the road,” she declares. “Wick lost the bet, so he’s paying.” Wick shrugs, not seeming at all upset about it. He just swings an arm over her and leads the way to the door.

They can’t all fit in Wick’s Volvo, or Raven’s truck, so most of Bellamy’s people sit in the truck bed. It’s unsafe, and Clarke keeps turning to check on them, but at some point they all decide to raise their hands and laugh in the wind, so they seem happy enough. She figures, two hundred years stuck in one empty manor, and she’d probably miss fresh air, too.

The Denny’s staff are clearly a little annoyed to have such a large party at three in the morning, and they’re all probably going to order a dozen free coffee refills, but Clarke can’t really feel sorry about it.

Bellamy slides in beside her in the booth, warm and firm against her side, and has her explain the menu to him. He takes her hand at some point.

She doesn’t let go.


End file.
